


Cloud's Moving Castle

by WinterEvenings



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Howl's Moving Castle AU, Minor Original Character(s), Not Canon Compliant, Some angst, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:15:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25156093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterEvenings/pseuds/WinterEvenings
Summary: (Howl's Moving Castle AU, the 2004 Studio Ghibli film)Thinking it a note from Aerith, she takes hold of it and breaks the seal on the back. Inside is a single slip of paper and a…a ring?Honing in on the note, she reads the thin, cursive scrawl written atop the paper slip.~This charm will protect you from harm. I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. I haven’t forgotten our promise.~
Relationships: Aerith Gainsborough & Cloud Strife, Aerith Gainsborough & Tifa Lockhart, Cloud Strife & Barret Wallace, Cloud Strife & Marlene Wallace, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Tifa Lockhart & Barret Wallace, Tifa Lockhart & Marlene Wallace, Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife, Zack Fair & Cloud Strife, Zack Fair/Aerith Gainsborough
Comments: 9
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

A crack of thunder outside draws her attention away from the book in her lap to the twin six-pane windows above her desk.

Following the rumble, heavy raindrops begin barreling down sideways, striking the glass with an untamed fury - as if trying to break through. The sky’s been looking gloomy almost all day, so its outburst doesn’t surprise her. She awoke to dark, ominous clouds, rolling in on the horizon at the break of dawn. And all morning and afternoon, they’ve hovered over Midgar, waiting overhead with the promise of rain. The promise of a storm.

But it _is_ a change of pace for the weather, _that_ much is surprising. The sunny streak spanning the weeks leading up to today hinting at a warm spring coming. But it seems winter’s trying it’s best to cling on yet, sending its last bout of cold weather to Midgar. Like a stubborn general unwilling to surrender, dispatching his last company of men out to fight on the battlefield, effectively sending them to their deaths.

Tifa’s just grateful that she managed to return home in time. She would loathe to be caught in this downpour.

Not that she dislikes the rain - far from it. She actually finds the pit-pattering sounds that accompany the rainfall to be quite soothing; a calming white noise for either reading or brewing, her two favorite hobbies.

And she greatly appreciates the way it cleanses the air of the ‘Midgar Funk,’ as she’s dubbed the rotten combination of smells in the outer plate - especially present in her slice of the city; mako exhaust, littered garbage, animal feces, sulfuric water. All of these things, and some more crude ones, pollute the streets of Sector Seven the most, being the poorest sector on the outer plate, as more and more people lose the will to care. Or, rather, the money to. 

No, it’s not the function of the rain that she dislikes.

It’s the cold.

It’s the way the raindrops soak all the way through her thin clothes, seeping right down into her bones, chilling her spine.

It’s the guilt that comes with the rain, knowing that she has a warm bed and fireplace to come home to, while countless others in her sector do not. Men, women and children alike suffer alone in the biting cold wearing only worn, gossamer garments - often dying from exposure during the coldest months of the year. All of them at the terrifying mercy of the elements.

But King Shinra and his loyal counsel do nothing for these people.

Absolutely nothing.

They do _nothing_ while their people go broke and homeless and hungry because they can’t afford to pay the war taxes. 

So blind is the throne to the citizens of Midgar beyond the inner plate, all of their attention dedicated solely to Wutai and _their_ kingdom, that they fail to notice the problems that plague their own.

They don’t see what’s been happening right under their noses for _three_ years.

Three long, arduous, burdensome years.

Tifa doesn’t hate the rain.

The front door creaks open before slamming shut, abruptly stealing Tifa’s focus away from the rain-streaked window, and her thoughts from the mass of citizens in times of tribulation.

Her eyes find her bedroom door, warily, her fingers moving to grip the handle to the top drawer of her nightstand. A long, sharpened dagger lay in wait, should she need to use it in self-defense. It’s a new addition to her nightstand, given to her by her father, resting innocently beside her hairbrush and handheld mirror. But a welcome addition, nonetheless.

Robbers were getting more careless these days, more desperate. Many of them homeless and searching for simple goods like clothes or food. Not usually violent, unless you got in their way.

So, her father sat her down at the table one evening, a fortnight ago, a serious expression plastered on his face.

_He took both of her hands in his own._

_“Tifa, my baby girl. The times are changing, and… and it’s high time we change to.”_

_He made a movement for his waist then, hands disappearing underneath the table in order to undo a knot on one of his belt loops. Tifa had waited both patiently and a little nervously, unsure what to expect._

_When he brought his hands back above the table, he carried a sheathed weapon. She stared at it in confusion, knowing her father to preach pacifism, and he set it down gingerly on the table in front of her before explaining himself._

_“This dagger,” he paused, laying a pointer finger on the leather scabbard, “is only to be used in emergencies. Should I be out and you, here alone, when an intruder invades our house, I… I would like for you to be prepared.”_

_She had felt torn at that moment, disliking the idea of violence herself, but could understand his thought process in giving it to her. Their neighbor, living but a few doors down, was robbed and nearly killed only two days prior. Her father must’ve been worried sick about her since. And her sisters as well._

_“All right,” she had said, allowing her father some piece of mind by accepting the weapon and later storing it in her nightstand for safe-keeping and easy access._

So of course, she finds herself all alone now, not expecting her father to be home for another hour yet. And it’s raining, the perfect time for a robber or someone down on their luck to seek some shelter and warmth.

She waits for a sign - any sign. Good or bad. Her heart thrums in her chest, her muscles tightening in anticipation. The seconds tick by slowly.

_Tick._

_Tick._

Footsteps come closer and closer still, by the kitchen now…

If food was all they were after, Tifa would let them have it. In fact, she’d let them have a coat and spare blankets too, in both pity and sympathy. So long as they didn’t attack her.

“Tifa! You home?” A muffled but familiar voice calls out, and she relaxes instantly. The tension in her shoulders dissipates.

Her hand drops to her side, weaponless. 

“Just a second, Jess!”

By the time she’s set her book aside, smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress and opened wide her bedroom door, Jessie’s made herself right at home. Like she usually does when she visits.

She lounges at the small breakfast nook that now doubles as a dinner table - her sisters having all moved out left Tifa and her father with the option of downsizing – a drenched overcoat slung over the back of a chair beside her. Rainwater drips off the fabric onto the wood floor, creating a coin-sized puddle. 

She’s lazily eating a buttered croissant, leaning back in her seat. The exact croissant that Tifa had only just purchased from the bakery across town that morning, and was planning on eating for breakfast tomorrow.

Before she can get a word in on that, however, Jessie’s speaking with her mouth full.

“Hav’ u ‘eard the la’es news regar’in’ the Wiz’r’ of the sums?”

Tifa palms her forehead. It’s during times like these that she wonders how Jessie is her older sister. Clearly, she doesn’t take the role very seriously. Unlike her acting gigs. 

“What?”

Jessie frowns, humming in irritation as if it’s Tifa’s fault that she can’t understand the mumbled question, and not her own for mumbling it in the first place.

She swallows hard, making Tifa cringe a bit - afraid that she might choke, before repeating herself with clarity.

“Have you heard the latest news regarding the Wizard of the Slums?”

_Not this wizard guy again_ , Tifa immediately thinks to herself. She’s been hearing enough about him lately, wherever she goes. So much so, that she might be able to write a modestly-sized novel on the guy, should she compile everyone’s daily remarks about him. And though she appreciates what he’s, presumably, been doing for the community, she’s getting tired of having every conversation include him. Like he’s some sort of divine being.

Though it is strange that he pilots a moving castle. She didn’t believe that one until she saw it with her own two eyes, just over the top of the wall in the mountainous distance. He must be a very powerful wizard indeed.

Nonetheless, she indulges in both her sister’s love for all things gossip and her own insatiable curiosity.

“I haven’t, no.”

Jessie’s jaw drops clear to the floor and her eyes widen comically, her usual dramatics on show. Those same dramatics that make her the finest actress in the sector, maybe all of Midgar. The croissant drops onto the table, buttered side down and Tifa winces.

“Whaaaat??! How have you not heard?!”

The younger brunette shrugs nonchalantly, plopping down into the chair opposite her sister. Something tells her that she’s either in for a long, boring ride or about to hear something truly extraordinary. Probably the former. Call it a hunch, or maybe it’s the fact that she lived with Jessie nearly all her life. Her personality, though excitable, was predictable.

Not that Tifa was one to talk.

She peels the croissant off the tabletop, leaving a butter residue behind, and picks off a salvageable piece. She points it accusingly at Jessie before popping it in her mouth.

“This was my breakfast tomorrow, you know.”

Jessie ignores her.

“The seemingly angelic, dark-haired Wizard of the Slums was rumored to have…” she pauses for theatrics, her body completely stilling to try and draw a reaction out of her ‘audience,’ but Tifa just raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“…eaten a little girl’s heart right out of her chest!!” She finishes loudly, mock ripping her own heart out and taking an imaginary bite out of it.

Tifa chokes, having not expected _that,_ of all things to be the rumor going around. She’s heard the run of the mill gossip before. The Wizard was spotted with a girl around town – _possible lover?_ The Wizard was seen delivering a package to someone – _are they a friend?_ Yadda yadda, _boring_. But this?

She thumps her chest with a closed fist, trying to redirect the piece of bread down the right tube.

“W-Where did you hear such a ridiculous story?” She asks, incredulously. And such a gruesome story at that! Just _way_ out of left field to what’s typically said about the mysterious man.

“Charlotte says it’s true – that it was for some sort of spell!” Jessie defends, trying to reel her back in. It does the opposite though, casting her far, far out. 

Tifa guffaws. Of course, Charlotte had told her. Charlotte Williams. Only the biggest gossiper on the outer plate, churned out of the rumor mill factory herself.

“And what sort of _spell_ would require a little girl’s heart?!”

“That’s the thing – no one knows! But some people swear he’s been a demon in disguise this whole time and that he’s secretly used black magic to trick everyone!”

Black magic, demons - Tifa’s had enough of this latest gossip round. She stands, shaking her head in disbelief. _The things that Jessie hears_.

“I seriously doubt that.”

Jessie trails behind her as she goes to fetch herself some water, her poor throat feeling scrubbed raw from her little choking fit. She’s reaching up on her tiptoes for a glass high up in the cupboard when Jessie speaks again, attitude resembling a pouting toddler. 

“You’re no fun!” Jessie whines, poking her right between her ribs. Tifa damn near drops her glass _and_ whacks Jessie on the forehead with her elbow, reflexively shying away from the touch with a yelp.

“Jessie!” She shouts, both at her sister’s comment and her action.

“You need to lighten up! Go out into town! Fall in love! All that jazz!”

Tifa meets Jessie’s pleading look with a glare of her own. She chooses not to reply, opting to silently fill her glass with water from the tap in petty anger. Only after she takes a few sips of the nasty substance, _-wow, we need a new filter-_ does she respond. As honestly as she can.

“Jessie, come on… You _know_ that isn’t me. I have all I’ve ever wanted right here, with Seventh Heaven and dad.”

Jessie pulls a face, tugging on her arm like a petulant child, “But you’ve never even _tried_ , Tifa. You’re going to end up an old maid if you keep on like this.”

“Seventh Heaven is doing just fine, thank you very much.” She semi-lies. Sure, her and her father brew and serve great beer. They have clients in different sectors. All sorts of customers.

But, with the increasing taxes screwing everybody over, people are becoming less and less inclined to buy alcohol. And getting the ingredients is harder than ever, but… but they’re scraping by. As long as they keep up their clientele in other sectors, they should stay afloat.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Jessie says, exasperation in her tone. “It’s just, if you never get out, how are you expecting to find your true lo-ove?”

Tifa sighs. Jessie’s gone on and on about true love and all its ‘wonderful, appealing qualities’ ever since they were children back in Nibelheim, running around playing hopscotch and shooting marbles. It’s a concept that she’s been clinging onto for what seems like forever, no doubt reinforced by Aerith’s new dream beau. Some ex-military man that she’s been seeing for about a month now, out of the blue.

Just the thought of her eldest sister makes her heart ache in her chest. She makes a mental note to go check on her soon. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, she’d make the journey over to Sector Five.

“Maybe they’ll come to the bar,” Tifa suggests, leaning her hip against the edge of the counter.

Jessie groans, running a hand through her damp hair in aggravation. 

“This is exactly what I mean! You can’t just wait around for things to happen to you – you gotta take the initiative! Put yourself out there!” Her hands gesticulate wildly for emphasis.

Hoping to end this conversation sooner than later, deciding that she’s had more than enough of this subject, Tifa concedes. Perhaps if she just agrees to it now, she can keep pushing back the date until Jessie _conveniently_ forgets about the whole thing.

“Fine, fine. I’ll let you take me out sometime-”

Jessie interjects with a loud whoop, pumping her fist in the air but Tifa quickly hushes her.

“ _Sometime_ ,” she reiterates, hoping to make her point very clear, “meaning not tonight.”

The grin on her sister’s face remains fixed though, and Tifa starts to think she might regret this later. No, scratch that, she’s definitely going to regret this later. Jessie was wild. She was loud, she was the life of the party, she was free-spirited.

She was _borderline_ _obnoxious_ , is what she was. But, Tifa would never say that to her face. She loved her too much.

And Tifa was so… the opposite of that. Preferring to keep to herself and finding joy in the most mundane of schedules, the simplest of things. Like curling up and reading a book. Or listening to her dad strum on the guitar. She was perfectly content doing the same exact thing, over and over again, for the rest of her life. Change scared her, to be entirely honest. Unpredictability scared her.

Maybe she could figure out a way to slip away unnoticed, when Jessie was distracted or something…

“I’ll hold you to that!” Jessie winks, sticking her tongue out playfully.

Tifa nods, but can’t seem to hide her discomfort, try as she might. A grimace that she’s trying her best to force into a smile adorns her face and Jessie reads the uncomfortable look written in her eyes, her own grin softening.

“Sorry about your croissant,” She apologizes, hoping to lighten the mood. It works, and now Tifa’s giggling softly.

“I expect a make-up croissant tomorrow, or else,” she warns, a true smile lighting up her features.

“Deal,” Jessie half-smirks, pleased, offering out her hand.

Tifa shakes it, parroting Jessie’s words back to her.

“I’ll hold you to that.”


	2. Chapter 2

She does get a croissant from Jessie the next day, as was promised. Two croissants, actually, delivered straight to her door - bright and early at sunrise. Tifa leaves one for her father, along with a note that tells him to enjoy it and where she’s going for the day.

He came in late the night prior, right as Jessie was leaving. Recently, he’s been working additional jobs, trying to round up some extra cash to put away should taxes rise again. And they probably will. _Greedy, war driven Shinra scums_.

If anyone were to hear her thoughts right now, she could be jailed for speaking negatively against the crown. She’s glad no one has the power to do that. The King, too far removed from civilian life to bear to listen to valid criticism or maybe too far removed to care, issued a royal decree a few months back that prohibited anything that so much as hinted toward sedition. All that is legally allowed to be published in official newspapers are objective war updates, praise for the King and unrelated stories.

Funnily enough, in response to the decree, there’s been more unofficial, malicious newspapers and pamphlets circulating the outer plate than ever before. Tifa had curiously picked one up off the ground the other day and was surprised to see the headline so scandalously and colorfully boasting: _Shinra Sucks Ass and Here’s Why._

Still, regardless of Shinra, it will forever sadden her to witness the progression of her father’s darkening under-eye circles and deepening forehead wrinkles. And it no doubt upset Jessie as well, seeing their father so exhausted. She had shared a look with Tifa when he came through the front door last night, one that telegraphed exactly what she was thinking. And they were thinking the same thing.

_To hell with Shinra._

Maybe that’s why she’s been keeping Jessie’s escapades secret. Because, she too, secretly wants the Shinra royals to pay for their carelessness. Wants them to be overthrown. The anti-Shinra group that Jessie’s been a part of for a little over a year now, marked by the anklet she wears displaying the letter **A** engraved into one of the metal dangles, has been gaining lots of traction lately – especially among Sector Seven residents. With each new royal decree and increase in tax costs, AVALANCHE procures more followers, more members, growing in both numbers and support.

But the violence they were willing to use, the sacrifices they were willing to make, the innocent civilian casualties they were willing to accept… Tifa couldn’t stomach that.

She doesn’t think she could ever join AVALANCHE, no matter how much she wants to see a change.

That’s why she takes after Aerith more, the eldest of the three sisters, preferring to peacefully provide aid to civilians in need rather than actively act against the crown. She wasn’t as rebellious as Jessie, not by a landslide.

So, she feels bad about leaving her father alone this morning without so much as a kiss goodbye, but the thought of waking him up feels even worse. He deserves to sleep in, get some rest. He deserves that much. She’ll be back later tonight, anyways, so they can catch up then.

And she needs to see Aerith. Like _really_ needs to. It’s been far too long since she’s hugged her sister and heard her sweet, comforting voice. She misses the smell of her flowers and other herbs, her nose clogged up with Midgar Funk. And her reunion with Jessie yesterday only fueled her desire to see her. She just… she just misses her so much.

Besides, she needs to meet this mystery man of hers, too. Make sure that he’s right for Aerith by observing his manners, his personality, the way he treats others, etc. and then judging whether or not he measures up. After all, it’s what one does for a sister, or sibling in general: protect them, and that includes their hearts.

She’s reminded of the Wizard of the Slums at the thought of hearts, and Jessie’s outrageous story _._

_Ripping a little girl’s heart out? Where did that even come from?_

She locks the shop behind her, turning away from the door to face the street. Three little kids run by her, giggling, perhaps playing a game of tag. Tifa tries to focus on their happiness, find strength in their gleeful spirit and big smiles, but all she can see is their tattered clothes and thin frames.

“Tifa?” 

A small hand tugs on her dress, distracting her from, admittedly, depressing thoughts. She looks down and sees a familiar face.

“Hi, Betty. How’s your dad doing?”

“Good!” the girl cheerfully responds, “Yours?”

She hesitates. It can’t hurt to lie. Not like anyone’s actually honest these days. Just selectively optimistic. Or pessimistic, depends.

“He’s well. Thank you.”

Betty points to the small basket she carries which safely stores both her breakfast croissant, courtesy of Jessie and her lunch consisting of bread and cheese, both meals concealed underneath a thin dish towel to ward away flies and other pesky bugs. She hopes to bring back some of Aerith’s flowers for her dad using the basket, after it’s emptied of its current contents, of course. Maybe it’ll give him some strength, knowing that she’s doing all right. Her flowers could cheer anybody up.

“Where’re you going?” She tilts her head curiously, waiting for an answer.

“To see Aerith.”

“Ooh! Tell her I said hi, please!” Betty bounces on her heels excitedly at the mention of Tifa’s sister, brown bangs swaying adorably.

Tifa nods, “I will!”

They part ways, bidding each other goodbye, and Tifa makes her way toward the middle of town. She sets a brisk pace, knowing that dilly-dallying could result in her missing the trolley and delaying her trip by a good fifteen minutes. And it’s a long trip, too, so there’s no time to waste.

As always, there’s muddy, grungy water soaking in the cracks of the cobblestone streets – freshly dumped from people’s houses out their front door following a bath, or a load of laundry washed. Rope lines are strung from window to window above the streets, the architecture of thin, tightly knitted together, generally two-story tall houses allowing such a feat. But the ropes hang empty now of clothes sunning out to dry, as people are prone to stealing. Most people dry their clothes in front of the window now, like mock curtains.

In the alleyways, there’s more disgusting things to be found. Rotting food, excrement from pets and people, and the like, all drawing flies and rodents. They scuttle across or hover above the cobblestone, gnawing on this and that. Tifa tries to avoid taking shortcuts specifically in Sector Seven for this reason, the other sectors being cleaner, which is why it takes longer to get around. 

And it’s also why she wears her red boots everywhere, even if they don’t match with her outfit. It’s not like fashion especially matters now. People are just happy to have clothes on their back, Tifa included. She’s always dressed simply, or ‘plainly’ as Jessie puts it, even before the war and its citizen crisis, but now she fits in. She prefers grays, blacks, and whites, all basic colors – not looking to stand out in the slightest. Her bright red boots are her loudest statement, though not delicate or feminine by any standard. Just work boots, perfectly suited for her chunk of the city.

She greets a few familiar faces along the way with a shy wave; stall owners setting up shop, storeowners sweeping out the dirt, and more people she often sees, but she doesn’t stop to chat. There’s no time to idle.

When she finally arrives at the town square, the trolley is nearly full and starting to pull away, on its trek toward the opposite end of town; closest to where the trains stop to transport passengers to the next sector over, or any after that.

At least eight trains run daily on each set of tracks, so long as maintenance checks yield positive outcomes, eight going counterclockwise on one track and eight running clockwise on another. Sixteen trains in all, spaced out evenly between the eight outer sectors. Running practically nonstop, there’s always at least four trains in the early morning hours, offering two sets of chances to travel in either direction. If she misses the first one, it could very well be at least another hour until the second morning train comes. And thus, she’ll have less time to spend with Aerith.

The inner plate, however, is only accessible by chocobo or foot. They have their own fancier train system inside the walls with improved technology and engineering, making way for speedier trains. All because of mako energy, which they pump out of the ground day after day at the expense of people and farmers in the outer plate. It’s a miracle that Aerith gets things to grow. Her horticulturist expertise has made her a prosperous apothecary. Her pharmacy, _The Pink Ribbon_ , is quite popular. A very profitable business, indeed. Tifa wonders if she’s secretly a witch, jokingly of course. But you never know… 

Many farmers are AVALANCHE members, as she’s found out, struggling both because of the mako consumption drying out the land and the insurmountable taxes.

The trolley picks up speed.

Her fingers hurriedly grasp the skirt of her dress, tugging the front up and out of the way of her feet, and she takes off into a dead sprint.

Trying her best to balance everything in her basket as she speedily runs, she quickly crosses the distance to the trolley, hopping up onto the platform near the back with a graceful ease. She releases her hold on her dress, using her now free hand to grab onto one of the poles for support. She tucks the handle of the woven basket into her other bent elbow, resting that free forearm across her chest. It was a habit to bring her hands up, one that she didn’t recall developing, yet always seemed to have.

Perhaps it gave her a sense of security, like she might be able to defend herself should someone jump her. A few jabs here and there, sure – she’s positive she could figure out where to place them for the most favorable results (certain areas of the body _are_ more sensitive than others), if she were put in such a situation. But, that’s a silly thought, seeing as she’s never trained in the art of hand-to-hand combat. And she’s a beer-brewing girl, not a brawling boy, after all.

It’s a sunny day outside, typical of the weather this time of year. Never mind yesterday. The air smells fresher thanks to the rain though, bless, and she enjoys the breeze that flutters past her as the trolley moves. Her dark brown, nearly black locks ride its steady current, gently waving behind her.

They pass over a convex bridge just outside of town that once traversed a powerful, wide river, but is merely a walkway over a glorified stream now. In due time, people might be able to just fill in the ditch and be rid of the bridge altogether. It’s scary to think about how quickly the river dried up and what that means about the, roughly, quadrupling rate of mako consumption inside the walls over the last few years. AVALANCHE makes a fair point about the mako, for sure, just as they’ve made a good point about forcing the government to address the other glossed over issues present in the outer plate.

Still, they seem to always go a little too far for her liking, just out of her comfort zone. Maybe their ways are what’s necessary, but she doesn’t know.

So caught up is she, just observing the barren fields once so full of lush plant life, that she hardly registers that the trolley has stopped by the train tracks until someone bumps her shoulder.

They mutter out an apology, and Tifa just politely smiles them off, not looking to start anything.

She steps down, boots stomping onto packed dirt, and heads for an empty bench partially covered by a torn umbrella. Like someone was attempting to use the material for clothing or a blanket but gave up half-way. It’s a rational hypothesis.

No one else approaches to sit down with her, to share the bench, so she waits alone for the train to come. It’s currently half-past six, so it should be coming soon. Anytime really.

She pulls out her croissant and gets to eating it, savoring each bite. It’s pure, buttery goodness.

Surely, about five minutes later, the train becomes visible in the distance. Whistling furiously, it chugs along the tracks, getting closer and closer and louder and louder by the second.

She stands, taking a second to stretch her legs before moving to join the growing congregation of eager, soon-to-be passengers. Standing on the outskirts of the crowd, she reaches down to fish her identification card out from her boot as the train arrives. It’s a flimsy piece of card stock, creased in the middle from folding and unfolding it so many times and scuffed along the edges. All that’s printed on it is her name, date of birth with a stamp by it to quickly verify her status as an adult, place of residence, and her father’s name. It used to have both of her parents’ names listed, but her card had to be updated on her birthday two years ago with the most accurate information, since she’d turned 18 and become of legal age.

She’s twenty now, yet she still misses seeing her mother’s name listed there. It made her feel as if she was still here. Still alive, in some capacity. Like Tifa would come home one day and find her sitting at the dining table, practicing her embroidery with a warm smile on her face, just like she used to. She’d loved making floral designs, simple and elegant – they were her favorite kind to do.

But sickness took her when Tifa was eleven. Unable to access proper medicine or a doctor that didn’t run their pockets dry on the first consultation. The whole ordeal, though painful and heartbreaking as it was, had inspired Aerith to use her green thumb to start a pharmacy.

Jessie took her grief out by playing tragic roles on stage. Her tears may have been heartfelt and real for a few years, able to draw on the pain of their loss.

And Tifa? She helped console her father, staying at home and learning the trade of liquor production, but… he’s never been the same. Part of her wonders whether or not she should have done something different, helped him differently, but then she scolds herself for wishing for the past to change.

_Change was bad._

After the string of people getting off the train ended, people began to race on board, piling in quickly. Nobody was exactly inspired or predisposed to stay in Sector Seven long these days, obviously.

Tifa gradually makes her way to the entrance and recognizes the conductor right as he recognizes her. He used to come into their bar after his shift ended.

“Tifa! Good to see you! How’s Brian and Seventh Heaven?”

“Seventh Heaven’s doing alright, thank you,” she avoids talking about her father.

“Expect to be receiving an order from me soon! Got a birthday celebration coming up!”

“Oh! Whose?” She inquires, moving aside to let someone else on behind her.

He takes a second to check their ID before answering her, “My son! He’s turning 16 in a month – the 18th to be exact - so I figure rather than letting him get accidentally black out drunk with his friends, I’d teach him about the ins and outs of alcohol myself! Some father-son bonding time! Might make for a better introduction to drinking, ha!”

He chuckles proudly to himself, checking yet another passenger’s card. Tifa can’t help but silently predict that the boy probably already encountered his fair share of alcohol – way before his father ever thought to ‘introduce’ him. Most kids drink underage nowadays, desperate for any kind of distraction from how awful their childhood is. It’s disheartening how common it is, but true all the same. And Tifa can’t exactly blame them – she just wishes that they didn’t drink those back-alley beers; as unsanitary as they are.

When it’s clear that the conversation is over, Tifa finds an open seat and sits down.

The train whistles as a last call to potential riders. A minute later, it’s pulling out of the outdoor station, the engine working to pull the heavy load along the tracks, gradually ramping up speed as it gains some downhill momentum.

Tifa chooses to just stare out the window, watching the dry scenery pass by. It’s like white noise for her eyes, and her thoughts wander.

Her thoughts have been chugging along lately, just like this train. But unlike this train, they never stay on track, veering way off course at random. Building their own tracks as they go. They’ve puzzled her, more often than not. But there’s been a running theme throughout the vast majority of her thinking sessions.

_How could she provide for the community?_

She wants to do so much more. Help so much more.

She’s thought of this and that, like baking extra bread or sewing new clothes from old, disposed of ones. Her mother was big on creating and recycling clothing, determined to have Tifa learn the tricks of the trade as well - which is why she’s thought about that option more often than the others. It would honor her mother’s dreams. Her grandmother on her mother’s side owned a hat shop and as a girl, Tifa’s mother learned to embroider and decorate the hats to follow the latest trends. It’s what kickstarted her hobby for all things sewing and knitting and whatnot.

But nothing seemed like enough. Maybe she’d ask Aerith for advice.

The train rolls into Sector Six, which is a step up from Seven, but still not all that great. There are some teenage-looking kids all standing in a group together and Tifa takes the few seconds she has, before the train passes them by, to document their appearances and the condition of their outfits. For comparison. 

Their clothing isn’t tattered like the rags her sector wears, yet stained and worn, no doubt. They look to be fed decently well, not gaunt, just skinny - no signs of poor health showing up outwardly. Inwardly could be a whole other matter, though. She tries to keep that in mind, so as not to downplay any other sector’s woes and troubles subconsciously. But soon, they’re gone from view and Tifa leans back into her seat, adopting her earlier spacing-out position. The train stops at the Sector Six station to let passengers on and off, before resuming its trip.

At long last, the train grinds to a halt at the Sector Five station.

The residents look much like Sector Six’s as Tifa observes when she climbs off.

She immediately sets off in the direction of Aerith’s medicinal shop, having the location memorized by heart with how often she used to visit. What a shame that she’s taken so long to come this time. Hopefully Aerith will forgive her. 

Though she can’t pinpoint the reason why she took so long to visit, she suspects it has something to do with her recent runaway thoughts. It’s like time has just been…slipping away from her. And before she knew it, a month had gone by. It’s strange, really, her behavior.

Soon, Aerith’s pharmacy comes into view. Tifa takes a second to drink in the sight. There’s that flowerbed out front, smaller than the one out back, but this one displays Aerith’s favorite flowers; yellow lilies. They’re growing as well as ever, stems strong and sturdy, every flower almost perfectly shaped, the yellow color bright and cheery – just like Aerith.

The small, brick building is covered in even more vines than Tifa remembers, going to show how fast those buggers can grow. Nearly half the building is concealed by the plant, and it adds a certain, unique charm to the building that perfectly suits Aerith. Her connection with nature is borderline magical, but she also likes to balance the beauty of Gaia with urban city life as well - so it seems fitting that her building reflects that double-sided coin.

Tifa marches over, unable to contain her excitement at the prospect of seeing her sister.

The shopkeeper’s bell chimes as she hastily pushes the door open, walking inside. Her eyes tear the store apart, but it’s obvious Aerith isn’t out front. She goes to try the back, careful not to knock plants or shelves containing bottles of medicine over along the way.

She knocks softly on the back door that leads out into Aerith’s large, private garden, which grows most of what she uses for her medicinal concoctions. But there’s no answer.

So, she goes ahead and opens it anyway. Either her sister was out here, in the bathroom, or out on the town. But before she consulted those last two options, she might as well start here, _while she’s here_.

The door doesn’t creak, surprisingly, which is an upgrade. Someone must’ve oiled it for her, and that someone may very well be out back with her right now.

Aerith and, who Tifa assumes is her new boyfriend, are dancing together, swaying back and forth to silent, absent music. He raises her hand in his own, holding it above her head and Aerith twirls around on a single foot, her long pink dress fanning out at her sides. A big, bright smile adorns her face, like the sunshine itself.

Tifa leans against the doorframe with a small smile on her own face, just observing.

The man is tall, perhaps over six feet, with shoulder-length black hair that stabs the air behind his head. So spiky. Must be gelled. He looks well-built and his shoulders are broad, posture straight and impressive. She can’t see his face yet but right as she thinks that, he leans Aerith back into an elegant dip, exposing his front. His features are gentle, playful, yet hardened by military and war. She can tell by the faint stress lines on his forehead.

But with such a clear view of him, also allows him a clear view of her. He stares at her, warily, halting their little dance session rather abruptly.

Aerith follows his gaze in confusion, head lolling to the side. But as soon as she spots Tifa, she immediately springs up out of his hold, nearly bonking him on the head in the process. He stumbles backwards as Aerith skips over to her.

“Tifa!” She exclaims, practically throwing herself at her younger sister. Tifa rocks back at the sheer force of her hug, wrapping her arms around her sister as well, a small giggle escaping her.

She smells like flowers and everything nice when Tifa inhales. So comforting. Just like their late mother.

After a small eternity, Aerith pulls back, her pearly white teeth on display.

“It’s been so long! Did you forget me?”

“A little,” Tifa teases, looking away briefly to act guilty, and Aerith’s expression sours. She places her hands on her hips in a scolding manner, leaning forward slightly.

“That’s not nice, missy! You’re just here for my flowers, aren’t you?”

Tifa debates saying yeah to her accusation, as Aerith’s always been a good sport, but her mean meter drains swiftly, as it commonly does.

“Of _course_ not. I came to see you…” She answers honestly before her eyes find the man again. “And him,” she adds.

Aerith looks back over her shoulder, “You mean Zack?”

_Who else?_ Tifa thinks, but she can detect the hidden question in Aerith’s tone.

“It’s a sister’s duty, you know.”

The flower girl smirks, bounding over towards Zack, hooking her arm through his. She pokes his cheek.

“There’s not a bad bone in his body. Right, Zack?” She asks. Zack nods, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. It makes him look like a…a puppy, or something.

Tifa wonders how true that proclamation is, given his previous choice of career. But, being in the military does not automatically make someone an evil person by any means. Maybe he was drafted or fell prey to the glorified propaganda version of war. She’s heard that before.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Tifa says, turning around to go back inside. They both follow her.

Aerith puts on a pot of tea as Tifa interrogates Zack with small talk. _How old are you? Where are you from? How’d you meet Aerith? What do you do for work?_

24 _, same age as Aerith_. Gongaga, _originally_. Between missions. Part-time construction worker, part-time florist with Aerith.

“What do _you_ do?” Zack asks, even though Tifa’s not done with her questions.

She humors him, though, even if it seems like he’s trying to hide something by means of deflection. “I brew beer and run a bar with my dad, though there hasn’t been much business as of late.”

“What’s the name? I might’ve been there.”

“Seventh Heaven.”

“Ah,” Zack taps a finger against his cheek, elbows propped up on the table, chin in his palms. “Yeah, I’ve been there – nice place! Went with some war buddies on my day off, way back when I was still a soldier. You said the beer was home-brewed? That’s amazing!”

Tifa is flattered, honestly. Zack sure didn’t hesitate to give compliments; his personality upbeat and easygoing. Maybe that’s how he’d charmed Aerith. They were a good match, she decided then and there.

“Alright, you win.”

“Win?” He tilts his head, curiously. “Win what?”

“My approval,” Tifa states, just as Aerith comes by with their tea. She pours the jasmine-flavored hot drink into three empty teacups, before sitting down.

“You done yet, detective?” Aerith questions, raising her eyebrows as she innocently sips from her teacup.

Tifa wonders how she’s not burning her mouth right now. The tea in her own cup is steaming, hinting at near scalding temperatures.

She nods, leaning back in her chair. “Yep, just closed the case. Not enough evidence. Defendant found not guilty.” She strikes an imaginary gavel.

“Oh, so you’re a judge too? As if running a bar, producing alcohol and being a detective wasn’t impressive enough.” Zack quips, taking a sip of his own tea.

_Yeah, they’re two peas in a pod._ Both freaks that can withstand too-hot tea. She thinks they’ll do just fine together. And she’s been here, what, half an hour?

“I’m a woman of many talents _and_ ambitions,” she jokingly strokes her own ego, adding a single cube of sugar to her tea and watching it dissolve. Stirring with her spoon to make sure it combines well.

“And yet, you never do anything with them!” Aerith takes her bragging seriously.

Tifa frowns, “Aerith…”

Said girl hums in mild frustration, seemingly about to drop the issue at Tifa’s tone. She wasn’t nearly as persistent as Jessie when it came to this matter. But then, she hits Zack’s arm, resulting in a betrayed _ow_.

“Tell her she deserves to do something for herself for once! She’s not selfish enough!”

So…she wasn’t _usually_ as persistent as Jessie in this matter.

Surprisingly, Zack obliges, repeating Aerith’s words almost exactly. Despite not really knowing Tifa or waiting to discern whether they’re the truth by himself. His immediate willingness to trust Aerith’s judgement is…unexpected, and all the more reason for Tifa to _trust_ _him_.

Instead of arguing back, she brings up her desire to be of more help around Sector Seven and asks for her sister’s advice. They both listen to her intently, which she appreciates.

“Well, it’s not always about what you provide tangibly…” Aerith starts, getting only a confused look in return.

She continues on, explaining, “You should focus on getting everyone to help each other instead, because you won’t always be able to bake them bread, or do whatever else you do. It would be less stressful on your part if you could build a kind of community mindset that promotes generosity. You’re good at that kind of thing.”

Tifa hums, thoughtfully, having not considered handling the situation in that way before. It makes sense. She can’t provide for everyone, no matter how much she wants to. So, by pushing everyone to focus on helping each other, then maybe there’d be less crimes committed and more hope and perseverance in the air. Share the charity; share the wealth. She likes that.

And it’s kind of like what Aerith’s already doing in Sector Five, with the children at the orphanage and, by extent, the rest of the general population.

“You’re a genius, Aerith. What would I do without you?”

She stays and chats with them for a good while as afternoon begins shifting gears into evening. From how close they are to the station, Tifa could hear trains whistling all day, generally once every hour.

There were multiple occasions where both Aerith and Zack were too busy with customers to talk, but Tifa didn’t mind waiting for them – just happy to be in a different atmosphere. Out of Seventh Heaven. Sure, she was an introverted person by choice, but even introverts needed to get outside every once in a while; hit the reset button.

She even ran an errand when Aerith asked her to, grabbing a few things from the store down the street a couple blocks, running into good-spirited folks along the way.

But Tifa knew when it was time to go home, as 1) she didn’t want to get stuck riding home in complete darkness and 2) she wanted to get home before her father went to sleep so they could talk.

So, she hugged her sister goodbye, and Zack too, with a cheeky comment that she’ll keep her eyes on him (to which he saluted her) and set off back toward the train station. Aerith had packed flowers into her basket, yellow lilies and white roses, the flower ends sticking out from under her dish towel and resting on the edge of the woven receptacle. It was a short walk back, especially without as many people in the streets. And that’s where she is when the train comes.

More tired than she’d originally thought, she yawns deeply, boarding the train sleepily. She almost forgets to show the conductor her ID, panicking a little when she’s stopped from getting on with an extended arm in front of her face, but then stews in her embarrassment and unawareness as she takes a seat.

The train rumbles to life, like usual, nothing weird going on.

But then, she notices a group of guys looking at her funny. Staring at her almost…predatorily from across the train car. They’ve got standard uniforms on, marking them as soldiers but obviously not high-ranking ones like she suspects Zack once was. He’s got the look of one, at least.

Their lingering gazes and creepy smirks make her stomach sink, and she tries ignoring them, hoping they’ll just vanish into thin air or, more realistically, lose interest in her. But they don’t, and for a good five minutes, Tifa’s glued to her seat in fright and anticipation.

Then, they approach. Rapidly. She tenses, not knowing what to expect but assuming the worst.

“Hey,” one of them speaks, voice rough and gravely. “Got somewhere to go home to tonight?”

She nods her head, not answering out loud. Not trusting her voice, knowing it might give away her fear.

“Don’t be scared,” another one says, this one with strawberry-blonde hair. He’s trying to be comforting, for whatever reason, but it does the opposite for her.

“I don’t know…She’s kind of cute when she’s scared,” the third one remarks, making Tifa’s blood run cold.

That…that did not sit well with her.

“There you are,” a new voice speaks, coming from behind her. Then, there’s an arm across her shoulders and oddly enough, she finds that she doesn’t want to shrug away from it. An aura of safety surrounds her. Rather, she leans slightly into the body that takes a seat beside her.

“Who’re you?” The scratchy-voiced man asks, his mustache twitching as he talks.

“I think the right question is _who are you?”_

The unseen man’s voice is low, but smooth. Confident.

Then, he raises a hand and all three of the guys adopt the at-attention stance. With a single flick of his wrist, they all turn around and start marching away almost comically, commanded by some invisible force to exit the train car and keep going.

Tifa gawks, knowing magic when she sees it.

_Could it be…?_

She turns her head up and to the side, as the man releases his hold on her shoulders.

Sure enough, she’s face-to-face with the famed Wizard of the Slums. Black, spiky hair, dark blue eyes with a hint of green, handsome features – just as described. He wears an all-black ensemble consisting of a trench coat pulled over a knitted, long-sleeve turtleneck, slacks and ankle boots. He wears green, dangly earrings and a few long necklaces, most likely charmed with how the gems sparkle unnaturally in the train’s late evening lighting.

_Zack and he could be brothers, twins even. Wait a minute_.

As she takes a closer look, she realizes that their features are eerily similar. Same jet-black hair, same exact shade of blue eyes, same eyebrow color and jaw shape. She starts to rethink what she knows about Zack. _Could he be dangerous?_ But this wizard had just saved her, and maybe it’s just a coincidence that they look nearly identical. Zack had pretty common characteristics…right?

“Sorry about them.” The wizard apologizes on their behalf, standing up to leave.

“Wait!” She grabs hold of his forearm, surprising herself with her boldness. She wants to ask him a great deal many things. _Who are you? When did you get here? How did you do that?_

She settles on, “Why did you save me? I mean…you could’ve just ignored what was happening.”

He glances down at her hand, still tightly wrapped around his arm, and she snatches it away in embarrassment. He doesn’t seem at all bothered by her reaction, casually shoving his hands in his coat pockets.

“A long time ago, I made a promise to someone who I considered a close friend,” he answers vaguely, only serving to puzzle her. How did that have anything to do with her?

Before she can say anything else, _ask_ anything else, he tilts his head in a gesture toward the train windows, drawing her attention outside. “We’re almost at Sector Seven. Your stop, right?”

“Yeah,” she confirms, before a thought strikes her. “How did you k-” she begins to ask, turning away from the windows only to find the man gone.

Looking to her left and right, she tries to locate him, but it’s as if he just vanished into thin air. She wonders, as the train pulls into the station, if she’d hallucinated the whole thing. She _was_ getting lost in her head lately, so it wouldn’t surprise her if that was the case. And the train ride went rather fast, so maybe she spaced out? 

But why would she hallucinate about the Wizard of the Slums? And in such detail too… It _would_ make his resemblance to Zack much more believable, if her brain had just picked the latest guy she’d seen to fill in the physical appearance aspect. That still didn’t explain why she was hallucinating the wizard in particular, though. 

But… but it felt real. She swears it was real.

She steps off the train, the cold night air chilling her. It’s blue hour right now, every surface tinted shades of blue. She likes this time of night, as it seems as though the sky’s getting ready for bed. Things are winding down; people are returning home. That is, before the late-night drunkards make their way home in the AM, tipsy on back-alley whiskey and rum. Singing loudly and off-key. 

The trolley doesn’t run at this time of night. So, she walks. Over the bridge, through the town square, past the shops.

The train leaves the station, whistling loudly in the distance.

She comes up on Seventh Heaven’s front doors, climbing the steps lazily. Full of good feelings, Aerith’s cooking, and new memories to become fond of, she unlocks the door and strolls inside. The lights are all off, save for a single lamp on the counter, so she assumes her father went to bed already. Probably still exhausted.

Locking the door behind her, she resolves that she’ll talk with him tomorrow and sets her things down at the breakfast nook/dining room table. Hopefully her father ate well today and rested accordingly. He should treat himself to a long bath tomorrow morning when he wakes up.

_And,_ she thinks, _he should wake up to some of Aerith’s beautiful flowers._

She goes behind the kitchen counter, bending down to reach the cabinet below the sink. Opening it, she locates a spare vase inside pretty quickly without much rummaging necessary. She brings it above the counter to fill it with water in preparation for the flowers.

Then, she returns to the basket at the table and strips away the dish towel to reveal the flowers underneath. Carefully, she arranges the collection into a serviceable bouquet, alternating between roses and lilies, a checkerboard pattern of white and yellow. As she picks up the final flower to place, she’s shocked to see an envelope with her name on it underneath.

Thinking it a note from Aerith, she takes hold of it and breaks the seal on the back. Inside is a single slip of paper and a… _a ring?_

Flummoxed, she turns the ring over in her palm. It’s colored a deep purple which is unusual for jewelry, but nonetheless, incredibly beautiful. What’s even more strange is that it’s almost alive looking, a silver script engraved along the outside in a language she doesn’t recognize, glowing and fading over and over again – like a heartbeat. The peculiar, charmed object makes Tifa think otherwise of her earlier assumption. That it’s not from Aerith. _But who?_

Honing in on the note, she reads the thin, cursive scrawl written atop the paper slip. 

_This ring will protect you from harm. I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. I haven’t forgotten our promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I'm alive!!! Sorry for the looooong wait! Classes are kicking my butt. Hope you enjoy! :)

_The grandfather clock strikes midnight, chiming loudly enough for her to hear it clearly, even all the way upstairs with her door shut. Though, it also helps that she was listening for it._

_Has been listening for it ever since she went to bed; it being a Saturday night and all. Well, Sunday morning now, she supposes. A small technicality._

_She throws her covers off, shooting out of bed excitedly. Once standing, she ignores pulling her slippers on, opting to go barefoot since it’s the quietest option. And the most controlled one. Even if her feet touch the ice-cold wood floor._

_Being wintertime in Nibelheim, absolutely everything is chilly to the touch that isn’t near the warmth of a fireplace or in contact with one’s skin for a prolonged period of time. Dishes, furniture, clothing, books, floors not covered by carpet or rugs, everything. Cold._

_But on most days, Tifa can easily overlook the cold with a warm coat and some knitted socks, both crafted by her mother. Having lived here all her life, she’s been acclimatized to weather since birth. What would be weird is if her family visited or moved to a tropical place, with a sandy white beach meeting the warm, vast ocean. She’s heard about those places from newcomers and visitors, and she’s always wondered if the sun would feel different on her skin, or if the air would smell different. But that’s just a silly thought. She’d probably never get to see a place like that._

_She grabs her thick, red wool shawl, previously draped over her desk chair, and slips it over her shoulders. Tugging the ends together to discourage heat from escaping, she carefully tiptoes over to her bedroom door. She twists the doorknob slowly to the right in order to not wake anybody else up. Her door being particularly rattle prone. Alerting her family would mean trouble. Her midnight adventures were hers and hers alone to experience._

_She wouldn’t even have a good reason for getting out of bed so late if she was caught. And she was terrible at lying on the spot, but no one in their right mind would believe her if she told them the truth either. Or rather, showed them the truth. Perhaps, they’d chalk it up to them thinking themselves to be having a strange dream, or herself to be sleep-walking._

_Heck, she wouldn’t even believe herself. The whole ordeal was that…preposterous._

_Luckily, she hasn’t had to lie yet, as sneaky as she is. She prides herself in her lightness of foot, aided by both her youth and natural cat-like qualities. Always been quick and agile, but surprisingly strong too. Deceptively so. Especially for the occasional overconfident Nibelheim boy. But that’s a very rare occasion indeed. And one much to the disapproval of her mother, so she tends to play the role of a fragile girl now whenever any challengers arrive. No fight, no matter how satisfying, was worth the wrath of her mother._

_The hallway is clear, everyone else’s bedroom doors shut, so she passes through it easily and finds herself at the top of the staircase. So far, so good._

_Making her way down the carpeted steps, she avoids any obnoxious creaking if she can help it, having long since memorized the noisiest steps and floorboards throughout the entire house. She figures that this fact also helps her adventures go as smoothly as possible. Natural abilities only go so far, after all. The rest is a matter of will and wit. And she’s forever seeking to improve. In all things._

_Finally, she crosses the distance to the living room where her mother’s mirror heirloom is displayed on the wall. It’s a beautiful thing, really, and no doubt expensive. Plated in gold and embellished with three gemstones at the top like one might see in a crown. A large, sparkly emerald sits in between two smaller, equally sized rubies. Yes, it would fetch a hefty price if they chose to sell it._

_Her mother often compares Tifa’s eyes to the red stones, remarking on how similar they look. And yet with every comparison she always lets it be understood that, between the two, she wholeheartedly prefers her daughter’s twin reds. Tifa doesn’t understand how, looking at the rubies now, seeing how beautifully they shine. But her mother insists that her eyes are prettier, and she doesn’t dare argue back, taking the compliment for what it’s worth._

_She pulls over a chair from the dining room table and uses it to reach upwards toward the object of her desire._

_With cautious and gentle fingers, she lifts the mirror off the custom wall-mounted display easel and then cradles it to her chest, protectively. Carefully, she steps down from the chair, making sure her weight is well supported. After that, she returns the chair to the table, pushing it in just so, and retraces her silent steps all the way back to her room._

_Safely alone, her door shut, and mirror propped up against her pillow, she waits._

_Generally, she doesn’t have to wait too long. There’s only been one weekend that he didn’t show, leaving her with dark circles under her eyes later that Sunday morning. Her lack of sleep resulted in some nerve-wracking questioning at breakfast. She hasn’t forgotten the strange look her mother gave her, despite assuring the rest of her family that she’d just had a bout of insomnia and couldn’t sleep. It was as if the woman knew something or suspected there was something else going on – as perceptive as she was – so Tifa’s taken extra precautions lately. And the next weekend, he did show, giving her a thousand apologies and instructing her to go to bed if he didn’t show within the hour._

_She never asked him why he missed that day, and he never gave her an answer._

_While pulling her covers around her body to ward off the night’s chill, her form now resembling that of a cocoon, the mirror begins to glow that familiar green. And each of the gemstones light up, enchanted by some mysterious magic. Tifa can hardly contain her glee, a bright smile gracing her lips. She ignores the urge to squeal. He was going to show!_

_The glow on the mirror itself fades after a few seconds tick by, but the gems remain brightly shining, as if to assure her of the connection. ‘Could her eyes light up like that?’ Is what she wants to say to her mother but keeping the magical powers of the mirror a secret is more important than convincing her mother of the rubies’ superiority in beauty. And she’s not so stubborn on the matter to care that much._

_Gone is the reflective quality of the mirror, acting now like a window into a different space at a different time than her own. Like a portal, but not one that is able to be passed through – as far as she knows._

_As usual, it looks like early morning on his end, their time zones opposite. Sunlight streams in through windows out of the mirror’s frame, illuminating his boyish face and the books on the shelf behind him. A familiar background, the same one as always. He never roams, but then again, neither does she. He sees her bedroom and she sees what she presumes is a library – based on the sheer number of books. Or perhaps he is rich, and it is a private study, but she’s never asked. It might explain how he’s acquired such a mirror like her own, but then again, she can’t even explain how her mother’s family came across it._

_She doesn’t know much about him, now that she thinks about it. The same could not be said for him about her, though. She tells him practically everything, like he’s her personal diary or something. But he doesn’t seem to mind, just happy to listen to her._

_He’s her best friend. The best she’s ever had and might ever have…_

_Spiky light blonde hair framing a soft, snowy complexion and sapphire blue eyes appear in the mirror before her. Sure, he’s always been objectively cute – cuter than any Nibelheim boy – and she may or may not have a teeny-tiny crush on him, but she’ll never admit to that out loud. She’s not sure whether he feels the same way, and the last thing she wants to do is ruin their precious friendship over a silly, unrequited crush._

_The corners of his lips quirk up into that small, shy smile – the one that perfectly reflects his character._

_“Hey, Tifa.”_

_She waves._

_“Heya!”_

* * *

She hasn’t dreamt of that boy in a _long_ time. A very long time.

Yet, she would be hard-pressed to name a day where he didn’t cross her mind at least once. A fleeting thought at best, brought about by something triggering or nostalgic or both. But usually it’s gone before she can grab a hold of it, retreating back into the depths of her cave of memories.

It certainly wasn’t easy for her to forget him and all his quiet thoughtfulness. His positive, yet realistic outlook on life and the world. Those tiny smiles that she’d always felt elated to witness, or better yet, _cause_.

And yet, she has forgotten. A lot.

Specific interactions, discussions, life details – these things have all pretty much escaped her with the passage of time. Flocking to the deepest crevice of her brain where she may never uncover them. It saddens her to think of how much she doesn’t remember, what with everything else preoccupying the immediate vicinity in her brain, but she cherishes what she does have.

It keeps her going most days, giving her a sort of strength in character. The memories of him and her loving mother have inspired her and continue to do so every day. Their personalities – similar in that they were both extremely determined and strong, but different in how they emoted and carried themselves. Proving that personality does not determine level of ambition. She strives to emulate them, in a way, carrying on a bit of their legacies. It gives her hope to think that there are more people out there like them, striving to do the right thing.

The few things that she _does_ recall about her friend’s personal life, of the little he actually shared, is that he lived in Midgar with his mom and was studying as an apprentice. For what? To whom? She can’t remember. But she’s not really sure whether that’s her brain’s fault or if he just never told her.

Sometimes, she wishes that she could go back and shut her young, blabber-mouth self up. Let him talk. It’s not like he was especially eager to share, very shy and reserved and seemingly perfectly content with just listening to her ramble, but still… That’s just an excuse for her selfish behavior. To boil it down, she would’ve liked to learn more about him.

Like his favorite food, or book – considering he had so many of those just towering around him, he’s sure to have liked _one_ of them. Why didn’t she ask? These small things, insignificant to most, would help cement him as an actual, physical person. Not just the ‘boy in the mirror.’ Because the older she gets, the more skeptical she becomes, and a small part of her logicizes that he can’t have been real. She knows so little of him, and it does seem strange that her mother would accidentally come into the possession of a magical mirror, unknowingly. It’s far more likely that he was a figment of her imagination, created by her childhood mind to deal with the absence of a true friend. But the larger part of her still believes he was real…

Moving to Midgar from Nibelheim hadn’t been easy, especially having to cross the sea, but the thought of meeting him in person had been encouraging. Even if she didn’t, and still doesn’t, know the first place to start.

Midgar is expansive and vast, covering hundreds and hundreds of square miles. Despite that fact, people continually shove themselves as close as to the Royal City as they possibly can, making the inner areas of each district densely populated. So, instead of a city gradually building itself as people run out of land, the people of Midgar are constructing their cities voluntarily to start. Thus, not many people settle the outer perimeters other than farmers and ranchers. Cloud could be anywhere and she’s lost hope of ever seeing him, figuratively pulling her own head down out of the clouds. She’d decided to give up searching a few years ago and focus on what she could do to help those _actually_ around her. Tangible people with real problems and needs.

So, it’s strange that she’d have a dream regarding him and Nibelheim. About a place, back when her biggest fears were inconsequential things like wearing mismatched socks to school or getting caught with the magic mirror. And about a boy, who’s perhaps forever stuck in that Nibelheim time capsule. Maybe even a sad, recurring hallucination.

Though she recalls the dream to be vivid, pulling on nostalgic, familiar strings in her mind, each time she tries to remember the details, the plot gets fuzzy and the two of them start talking in unintelligible noises. As most dreams go. So vivid when one has them, but immediately discarded of when one awakens. One might even question why dreams even exist, what purpose they serve, if they’re to be forgotten so easily.

She’d ruminated about all of it during her breakfast of one egg and a piece of toast, sitting alone at the table with a cup of tea. Which might very well be the last cup of tea she’ll drink for a while, or coming up on the last, unless she can snag some leaves from Aerith’s place soon. But she doesn’t want to take advantage of Aerith’s hospitality just for some tea. She’ll only go over for a respectful reason.

The tea caddy is nearly empty, the amount of loose leaves down to a few more cups at most. She’ll let her dad have the rest. Gaia knows he needs it.

Speaking of, her father’s bedroom door creaks open, the man sleepily strolling out a second later.

“Mornin,’” he greets, rubbing away the crust from the corners of his eyes.

“Morning,” she mimics, waiting for him to notice.

He yawns deeply, stretching both of his arms above his head and arching his back. His whole body creaks, emphasizing his exhaustion. When he’s done, his eyes immediately catch what’s on the table.

“Oh my goodness!” He exclaims, face lighting up. Tifa smiles at the sight, gesturing with an outstretched arm to encourage him to take a closer look at the bright arrangement.

He hastily walks over, bending down to inhale the sweet aromas emitted by the colorful floral tissues. When he straightens up, pulling his head back, his hand comes up to caress the softness of the flower petals, a bittersweet look in his eyes.

“How is she?”

Tifa takes to admiring the flowers herself before answering, pulling one of the yellow lilies out from the vase so she doesn’t have to stand to reach it. She holds it underneath her nose and breathes in.

It’s almost like… she can hear the birds singing and the bubbling of the tiny brook that ran through the small, wooded area back in Nibelheim. And her mother’s soft humming coming from the rocking chair on their back porch, while she knits away at one thing or another.

But Tifa’s not there. She’s here, in Midgar.

_Right_.

“She’s doing as well as ever.”

Her father hums before placing one hand on the table and the other on his hip, suddenly looking serious. It looks like he’s about to interrogate her - like when she was younger, and Jessie ratted her out for something.

“And this… _Zack_. Just how is he?”

Tifa stifles a laugh at his overprotectiveness, reminding her of herself the day prior. At least she wasn’t trying to hide her suspicions then, like her father is now – even though it’s blatantly obvious. In the way he’s gripping the table so fiercely his knuckles have turned white. And how his chest is puffed out a bit, jaw tense.

She twirls the stem between her index finger and thumb, the flower petals merging and blurring into a circle of yellow as it spins. Like those pinwheels she used to make out of some papers and a stick.

“He’s nice, dad. Really nice.”

~

Tifa spent the better half of the early morning relaying the details of her previous day’s trip to her father, leaving out the strange encounter on the train of course.

He let her ramble on like he usual did, only interjecting to make a point here or a joke there. She really valued times like these, where she could just sit around and talk with her father. They were few and far between, especially now that he’s been taking more jobs to compensate for the rising taxes.

It was peaceful and rejuvenating for both her soul and spirit; the two of them just so.

Relaxing, like taking a deep breath or a warm bath after a day of grueling work. She knows that feeling well. When she used to help her late mother maintain their medium-sized vegetable garden back in Nibelheim, her knees and back would get so sore after hours spent pulling pesky weeds that as soon as her mother would draw a warm bath for her, she’d practically jump in with her clothes on. 

Still, their little catch-up time together was cut all too short when he sent her out on her way to get groceries among other things. Sure, she would’ve liked to stay and chat for longer, but the errands wouldn’t run themselves and she’d rather she did them than her father.

There were ingredients and supplies for alcohol-brewing needed, and they were running low on bread and eggs, among other staple foods. They didn’t have much money to spare, but Tifa knew how to stretch gil where and when it was necessary. Like now.

She overlooks the grunge in the streets like she always does. Boots on, getting dirtier by the footstep.

Tifa stays fairly local in her shopping, not crossing town to look for cheap food as there’s no need. She’s built relationships with the nearby store owners and can easily encourage them to give her a discount for being a loyal customer and a familiar face. It’s not like she’s taking advantage of their kindness, as they are welcome to discounts at Seventh Heaven as well. Just friendly haggling.

She deliberately shops for nonperishable items first like bread, dried fruit and dried beans – picking up an extra scoop of these. They’re rations, practically, but they’re priced appropriately. _Fresh food_ meaning expensive, and expensive meaning _no profit_ in this sector, as nobody will be able to meet your prices.

The purchasing of eggs, milk, meat and all that will have to wait, as she’s planning on making the most out of this outing. Like dropping by at the local orphanage and maybe even some of the homeless camps. Might as well, since she’s out and about and her father’s probably napping at home to catch up on some much-needed sleep. But of course, she doesn’t want to stay out _too_ long. 

Her sister’s advice comes to the forefront in her mind.

_“You should focus on getting everyone to help each other instead, because you won’t always be able to bake them bread or do whatever else it is you do. It would be less stressful on your part if you could build a kind of community mindset that promotes generosity. You’re good at that kind of thing.”_

_I’m good at that kind of thing, Aerith? … You sure?_

Tifa hums contemplatively to herself, gently rocking the half-full basket at her side. How could she best accomplish what Aerith suggested? Some sort of food bank? Or fundraiser? Would that be asking too much of the community, which is already struggling enough? How could she convince them that their spare gil, if they have any, would _actually_ be going toward the cause? And not directly into her pocket. Sure, she’s got a good reputation, but only in her little bubble. Certainly, the whole sector would not be so eager to trust her. Especially if they could not witness the fruits of her efforts first-hand. Or see the donations come back around.

Could she ask another sector? No, again, she’s faced with the whole trusting issue and besides, the ones closest to 7 are also struggling. Not to mention that transportation would take up a sizable portion of her day, leaving less time for her supposed donation collecting, or whatever else she might think of doing in the future.

Maybe she could find a way into the inner city, and politely ask some well-off people to spare a few pocket gil? Or start a movement that would alert them to the poverty issues on the outer plate?

Ambitious, yes. Feasible, no.

As if the (d)inner plate would be willing to listen to _slum dwellers_. Pompous and wealthy and ignorant, the lot of them. How could she, not only a lady of the lowest class but an immigrant to the city as well, manage to upheave entire generations worth of stigmas? 

Stigmas like that the people out here _chose_ to live in filth and subject themselves to the horrors of extreme poverty and starvation. That the people out here are sub-human, struck down with disease by ‘Gaia’s merciless hand’ herself, and certainly _not_ poisoned by heavy exposure to Mako; either directly from Mako exhaust where the people closest to the Royal City’s pumps are the most affected, or indirectly through extremely contaminated goods. Goods that are generally the cheapest, thus the most affordable, _thus_ harming the most people _and_ _thus_ , worrying (d)inner plate citizens that some mysterious disease has arisen to punish them all. Or whatever nonsense hearsay spreads through the Royal City that month, or week or day.

Tifa would either be the laughingstock of the royal city for a week or avoided like a leper if she attempted such a bold feat. But then they’d be right back to it; pumping Mako and supporting the continuous rise in taxes. Living luxuriously and ignoring the outer plate once again until it manages to tickle their fancy and insatiable thirst for gossip.

And then the remnants of that gossip would trickle down through the _sewers_ until it reached the ears of one Ms. Charlotte Williams and soon, every sector would be discussing it, wondering if it’s indeed true. Further trashing 7’s reputation, and the nearest sectors around it. Some people might ponder its credibility if they aren’t too gullible, but most people are or choose to be in order to have something to talk about.

Stained. Dirty. Inhuman. _Slum dwellers_.

She would have to start small and keep her goals reasonable. Burdening herself with all the sectors was not smart nor healthy. Her heart might break or shatter if she thought about everything at once…

Managing a whole movement on her own was not realistic, but maybe she could lead by example and create a rippling effect of good deeds. And maybe if the ripples continued further and further out, the royal city would finally start paying attention and its inhabitants, not wanting to look bad, would begin donating money and goods to the people. If the outer plate has one thing going for them, it’s their numbers and using that to their strength would be the only way to solve this issue.

However, Tifa is most definitely not the first person to think of this, and stuff like this is always easier said than done. But… if she could be a small part in this, a catalyst just in her sector, and she could somehow inspire others to follow her lead, it would mean the world to her. She’d feel like she actually contributed to the ongoing fight against poverty, inequality and the many other injustices outer plate citizens face.

While her mind did one kind of wandering, her feet did another, and she soon finds herself standing in front of the local orphanage.

The place looks the same. A little beat up, a little bruised, but obviously loved. The children’s touches are everywhere. From the peeling temporary paint and chalk on the walls outside, destined to fade in the sprinkling of a Spring rain, to the many stick figure portraits hanging up inside. None of the furniture has been rearranged in the week since she’s last visited, Tifa notes as she steps in, but the floor could use a sweeping and the bookshelves a little dusting. Reading’s never popular with the majority of kids around here, despite the many books. They prefer being out of doors running small errands and playing make-believe close by.

Tifa thinks any type of innocent, childish escapism is a good type. Just so long as they’re happy and finding _some_ way to enjoy themselves. It’s not easy to ignore the sick and dying in the alleyways, but children should stay children for as long as possible. Keep the depression and overwhelming sympathy at bay for as long as possible.

The older kids in the orphanage have already lost most of that childish obliviousness, so extra care has been shown to them by the staff and volunteers alike. Growing up and understanding reality as it truly is, regardless of what age that happens at, is never easy. 

“Tifa!”

She turns away from admiring a cute stick figure drawing of herself tacked to the wall, where her hair is shown dramatically flowing all the way down to the ground and puddling at her feet, to see a familiar face. 

“Wedge! It’s so good to see you! How are the cats?”

The lad gives her a gummy smile and given the opportunity, launches straight into his favorite topic.

“They’re great! Smalls is finally catching up to Biggums and Reggie in size, so it looks like I won’t have to worry too much about him after all! Isn’t that good news? Oh, and Martha’s leg is better too! When she came back limping that one night, she did scare me a little — I’m sure you remember how she fell from the top—"

“Wedge! How about giving her a second to breathe, my man?”

A fingerless-gloved hand slaps Wedge in the middle of his back with a fearsome _thwack_ , causing him to sputter into a small coughing fit.

“Hey, Biggs.” Tifa greets with a warm smile for a guy that’s akin to an older brother to her. It’s surprising how close they’ve grown, all three of them really, in such a relatively short span of time. And without meeting each other super often too! But it’s all thanks to Jessie’s old volunteer job here that Tifa’s since taken over. And consequently, gotten to know a few more faces. Like this pair of idiots. A single hour could feel like many with these two around.

They’ve been great company while she’s seen less of her father, and her sisters have gone away.

Biggs returns the grin.

“Shouldn’t you know by now to not ask Wedge about cats straight up like that? It’s been what, three years you’ve known this fella?”

Three years, including when Jessie was still around and Tifa was merely a mentioned name in the orphanage. And Biggs and Wedge were just mentioned names around their old dinner table at home.

“Maybe I’ve missed his little spiels,” Tifa suggests, walking into the supply room to grab some finger paint.

“Good on you, but I’ve heard enough cat facts to last me until the next century,” Biggs jokes.

Tifa chuckles when Wedge whines in betrayal like Biggs has just committed a friendship sin, before she grows confused instead of amused. Her eyes scan up and down the rather empty shelves.

“Where’s all the paint?”

Wedge answers this dejectedly, “We’re all out. Our main supplier went out of business when the last tax increase was announced, so now we’re depending on donations which hasn’t been steady… And it’s not just paint, but all the art stuff too.”

“You’re kidding.” Tifa sighs, angry and disappointed, but definitely not at the art businesses. No, they aren’t to blame for this at all. It’s just a rough livelihood to have right now, unfortunately. “The kids must be so upset.”

“Yeah, but they’re coping so well. In fact, Jane said that they’d just ‘use their imagination more.’” Biggs raises his hands to make air quotes. “Honestly, they’re handling it better than us.”

“Still… How are you guys asking for donations?” Tifa asks.

“We’ve been sending volunteers out to ask around, along with the other staff. Just trying to get the word out,” Wedge replies, shrugging.

“But since _we’re_ hardly staying afloat with the new tax, it’s... Let’s just say that this past week, we’ve been focusing a lot of our energy onto things other than paint, as much as we hate making the kids wait.” Biggs explains with a guilty voice.

Tifa hums in acknowledgement and understanding at both their comments, averting her gaze to the side, before an idea strikes her like a bolt of lightning. Her posture straightens a bit and she blurts out, “What if the children asked instead?”

There was a beat of silence where Biggs and Wedge’s eyes met.

“We can’t ask them to do that. That’s too… adult-y.” Wedge denies the idea.

“It doesn’t have to be like what you’re thinking.” Tifa hurries out to explain herself. “They like to run errands anyway, and people would be more likely to respond to the children themselves. We could just make it into a game or activity of sorts.”

“But we’re sending volunteers all over. We can’t let the children wander too far, y’know?” Biggs brought up a fair point. The children are never allowed to explore very far, for a multitude of reasons. All very good reasons.

“True, but what if they were supervised? By those same volunteers?” Tifa was starting to like her plan the more she thought about it. And it seemed Biggs and Wedge were too, if their contemplative silence was anything to go off of.

It was simple. Just a start. And any extra donations could go to the homeless camps and whatnot. An orphanage was trustworthy, no, small kids were trustworthy. People would be more eager to provide for little ones in need, even if they didn’t know them, rather than ‘big’ ones with more experience in the art of manipulation and greed. 

Biggs claps his hands once to pull everyone from their thoughts, wringing them together slowly as he spoke. 

“Wedge and I will talk it through with everyone over the week and see what they all think about it. Shoot, maybe they’ll have some suggestions too… Maybe our best bet is to just think small and simple for now.”

Tifa nods, flashing a small encouraging smile at the two of them.

Maybe this was what Aerith had meant?

She absentmindedly fiddles with the charmed ring in her pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this isn't a very exciting chapter, but I have the outline drafted for the next one and it's looking like it should be more action-packed I think! And then the real journey of the story can finally begin! Yay!


End file.
